The Second Coming
by grape-flavored-ruku
Summary: Richard Maxwell wants to live. And sometimes, the only way to do that... is to die.
1. Innocent Sleep

The nightmare ended with the soft clink of glasses against each other.

He startled awake just as a tree branch cracked against the windowpane. The book in his lap fell to the floor, as the second gust of wind blew a smattering of rain against the window.

Just a typical Odyssey November.

Richard wiped the crust from the corners of his eyes. Mr. Whittaker's old grandfather clock in the corner of the room read twelve-thirty. On the carpet, the book, _The Sea Wolf_, lay face down.

Again.

Jason was gonna kill him for abusing his book like this. Already, a crease could be spotted in the cover from hitting the floor one-too-many times.

His left eye twitched as he rubbed it, trying to rub the last of the nightmare from his vision. It lingered under his eyelids and in the shadows. He snatched up the flashlight next to his bed stand and shone it at the shadow behind the grandfather clock.

Nothing.

His gaze fell to the closed closet door. He slid off the bed and limped to the closet, then flung it open.

Empty, besides Jason's collection of cardigan sweaters. He checked behind those, too. Nothing there either.

He picked up the book before he slid onto the bed once more, then sat in an awkward, half-cross-legged position. His hard, white ankle cast worked as a book stand as he skimmed the pages.

None of it looked familiar. He flipped all the way back to chapter one before he recognized a fragment of the story. Humphrey's ship had collided with another ship in the bay. The character found himself thrown off the vessel and sucked into the vast, wide ocean.

_"And I was alone, floating, apparently, in the midst of a gray primordial vastness. I confess that a madness seized me, that I shrieked aloud as the women had shrieked, and beat the water with my numb hands…"_

A rumble surfaced from deep within Richard's gut. His appetite was _fashionably _late to dinner.

Maybe he could sneak a sandwich. A ham and mustard sandwich. His mouth watered.

He slapped the book shut and dragged himself from the bed once more, snagging his crutch as he did a one-footed hop past the dresser it leaned on.

He held his breath as he opened the door, then stepped into the dark hallway, cringing at every creak and shiver of the house the wind sent through it. The door to _Doctor Allen's _room remained closed.

So far, so good.

Despite the cast and crutch, Richard glided down the stairs with the practice of a trained professional. He shivered a little as he entered the kitchen, then opened the fridge to chase the dark away.

The fridge light was like Heaven coming down to bless him with holy food. He slid the white bread from the shelf with surgical precision and set it on the counter.

He grimaced as he fumbled with the twist tie on the bag, the hand in the cast stiff and clumsy.

He didn't need a fancy sandwich, anyway. Bread. Ham, Mustard. He slapped the ingredients without care onto the bread and didn't even bother to get a plate.

He picked up the sandwich with his good hand, then bit into the soft bread.

Tang and meat filled his mouth, a simple, wholesome blend. He savored it. His brush with death had made food seem so special. The colorful taste of strawberry Jell-O in that bleak hospital was one of his first memories after the _Blackgaard Thing_, and one he'd cherish until death.

He cleaned up, then dragged himself back to the stairs. Sandwich in one hand and crutch in the other, he made it two steps before he tipped backward. He fell in slow motion, then crunched his tailbone at the bottom.

He lay there, breathless, staring at the ceiling.

Footsteps creaked across the second floor.

Breathing a curse, he scrambled to get up. He instead writhed like an idiot. He pressed a hand to the base of his spine and held his breath.

"Richard?" The query floated down from the top of the dark stairs.

"I'm fine," he groaned.

The light clicked on. He squeezed his eyes shut. Even under his eyelids, the bright redness consumed him. He covered his face with his hands.

"Oh, dear." The stairs squeaked.

Richard took another deep breath and held it. He gritted his teeth. "I said I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle."

"Oh, Richard." Mr. Allen was next to his ear. He prodded at Richard's cast. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm perfectly fine and normal. I'm just _dandy_."

Mr. Allen wrapped a hand around Richard's wrist. "Come on," he tugged a little, "let's get you to bed."

Richard squinted when he removed his hands. Legs numb, he managed to stand. He avoided Mr. Allen's gaze when he offered the crutch.

At a snail's pace, they shuffled up the steps.

Mr. Allen cleared his throat. "Whatever you needed, I could have got it for you."

The residual tang from the mustard was now sour in Richard's mouth. "I'm fine."

"I never mind it when you wake me up."

"I'm good, thanks."

The conversation stopped there, like a roadblock. Richard didn't care to find a way around it.

Mr. Allen let him go just outside of Richard's room.

Richard shut and locked the door.

Emptiness settled in his stomach.

He returned to the soft bed and again opened _The Sea Wolf_. What would happen to Humphrey, now that he was drowning?

He smirked as the rain continued to beat his window. Good ambiance for reading.

The grandfather clock struck One.

* * *

He walked through the back door of Whit's End, into the dark kitchen. His heart ground against his ribs and into his ears.

The flecks of blood on the tile stood out like a sore thumb.

He smiled and touched his nose, then moved to the kitchen door. He peered through the plastic window into the hub of Whit's End.

The fans on the ceiling twirled in slow, gentle unison. The tables under them, shiny and clean, sat abandoned in the autumn light.

He pushed the door open, then flinched at the thunderous squeak it made against the deafening silence. He let it fall closed behind him as he tiptoed to the other side of the ice cream counter.

Two pristine and full glasses of liquid with ice sat on the counter. He wiped some crumbs from a stool and sat, then tentatively sipped one of the drinks.

Lemonade.

A creak from the bowels of Whit's End caused him to whip his head around. The basement door creaked halfway open.

He looked away.

Slow footsteps echoed across the wooden floor.

Richard put his free hand across his eyes.

Someone slid onto the bar stool next to him.

Silence.

Richard took a deep breath and uncovered his eyes, but looked away and out the window at the blurry fog.

In the window reflection, Regis Blackgaard took the second drink and swirled its contents. The ice rattled against the glass.

After an eternity, he raised the glass in the air. "To us."

Richard's gut twisted when the rich voice penetrated the silence and filled the room.

Blackgaard pushed his glass against Richard's.

_Clink._

* * *

He startled awake just as a tree branch cracked against the windowpane. The book in his lap fell to the floor, as the second gust of wind blew a smattering of rain against the window.

Richard wiped the crust from the corners of his eyes. Mr. Whittaker's old grandfather clock in the corner of the room read one-thirty. On the carpet, the book lay face down.

_Again._

Richard pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

He should have died in that ravine instead of being strung along this hellish lifeline, like a puppet for Satan's amusement.

He pinched the bags underneath his eyes. They ached. His eyes ached.

Everything ached, inside and out. Lucy had said that once.

A tear spilled onto his fingers.

He grabbed the borrowed pillow and pressed his face into it.

The book would stay on the floor this time. Humphrey could drown on his own for now.


	2. The Shadows

The headache started as a pinprick at the front of his skull.

He laid on his bed for hours, flicking his gaze back and forth between the grandfather clock and the shadow behind the curtain.

It blinked as it began to move, just a flicker. Richard didn't take his eyes from it.

The clock chimed four in the morning.

The small headache began to spread behind his eyes and through his brain. Within his skull, the blood pressure began to mount.

He didn't move.

The shadow began to drip to the floor like melting ice cream.

The hammering of his heart sent a blur through his vision and a pang in the place his skull met his spine.

He passed a hand over his eyes and peered through the cracks between his fingers.

The shadow had returned to its place behind the curtain.

Richard sighed and rubbed his forehead. His tailbone began to throb as he shifted on the bed. He needed something to drug his aches and pains away.

Mr. Allen had ibuprofen in his dresser drawer.

Richard didn't move.

The shadow began to spill out from behind the curtain once again.

Richard couldn't ask _Mr. Allen_ for medicine.

His ears began to throb.

The shadow began to take the form of a man.

It stood in front of his bed.

Richard took a deep breath and swung a leg over the side of the bed. Spots buzzed around the edge of his vision.

He scooped up his crutches and glanced behind him.

The shadow, tall as Blackgaard now, tilted its head.

Richard gritted his teeth and dragged himself through the doorway.

In the hall, Mr. Allen's voice floated soft and drone-like from downstairs.

Praying.

Richard bit his cheek and tested the knob of Mr. Allen's closed bedroom door. It rattled. He pushed the door open with one finger, then stepped into the yawning blackness.

The shadow slithered at the edges of his vision.

Mr. Allen's prayer carried through the floor vent. "…_that Richard's soul is in Your hands, Lord. You know what he needs even more than he does._"

Richard snorted as he pressed the door closed.

He flipped on the light.

He'd been under the impression that Mr. Allen was a neat freak, but the room didn't even seem lived-in. A wrinkle-free bed, shoved against the wall, transitioned to a clean and dusted dresser. The closed closet door took up most of the wall. The chair in the corner was bare.

Richard's teeth chattered every time his heart pumped. He limped to the dresser, careful of the creaking noises the floor made. He yanked the topmost drawer open.

Socks. Flat pairs stacked in rows, sorted by thickness.

He patted the bottom of the drawer and ran his hands along the sides. Nothing.

The next drawer held pants, the next, shirts.

Nothing.

He growled in frustration.

The shadow in the corners of his eyes began to form into a solid shape once again- a man standing in the dark corner of the room.

Richard turned away from it and to the closet. The door groaned as he pulled it open.

The light from the room flooded into the closet and cast a glow on the shelving lining the top. Stacked atop a tan suitcase were the medicine bottles he sought.

Whispers tickled his ears as he felt the coldness of the shadow take over the room. His headache seemed to slice through his brain at each beat of his heart. If it were possible, he'd bash his head open just to relieve the blood pressure.

He shot his hand out for the suitcase handle. The tips of his fingers brushed it then slipped away.

One of his crutches clattered to the floor as he stood on tip-toe with his good foot, trying to use the other crutch for leverage.

Two of his fingers hooked on the smooth handle. He jerked it just as the other crutch clattered to the floor.

He fell.

The last thing he saw was the slow-motion suitcase falling towards his face.

* * *

He stood in a long corridor, the low lights casting a blue glow into the shadows of the doors lining the walls.

He held his breath as his bare feet pattered across the bleach-white floor, his crutches clicking with every step. _Pat-click, pat-click, pat-click_.

A single painting of a stream hung on the wall. It bubbled from the ground in the corner of the painting, then ran over a waterfall. The water meandered across the painting until it burst forth from the stream again, a closed loop.

He'd seen this painting before. In Blackgaard's office, years ago.

Static buzzed through his ears as his head began to pound. He squeezed his eyes shut as _that_ presence washed over him like a feverish breath.

He looked away from the painting and to the elevator at the end of the corridor. "I'm leaving."

Blackgaard chuckled in reply.

Richard step-clicked down the hall to the elevator. He pressed the button. It _dinged_. The hum of the elevator filled the quiet corridor.

The hydraulics hissed as it stopped on his floor.

_Ding_.

The door opened.

Regis Blackgaard stood in front of him, a Cheshire grin on his face.

He held out a hand, as if inviting him into the elevator.

Richard jerked backward. His crutches tangled with his legs. He tumbled and smacked his head against the white floor.

"Face the truth, Maxwell." Blackgaard spread his hands, "You've always been _mine_."

He opened his eyes a crack. Blackgaard's polished black shoes filled his view.

Richard balled his fists. "Get out of my head."

"Stubborn as always, I see."

Richard pressed a hand to the ground. His skin squelched against his own blood. Drops ran across his eye. A stinging sensation spread across his orbit.

Blackgaard stepped into Richard's puddle and grabbed his collar.

The walls started to move as Richard slid across the floor, leaving a red trail behind him.

"Wake up, Maxwell. Wake up…"

* * *

Blood pounded behind his eyes. His head felt as if it would split in two.

Someone was shaking his arm.

"...to wake up, Richard!"

The warm light of Mr. Allen's room flooded his vision as he opened his eyes. The suitcase sat on the hardwood floor just to his right.

"Ugh." He tried to sit up.

Mr. Allen pushed him back down, worry etched on his face. "Hold still now, Richard. I've called an ambulance."

"I don't need…" his stomach lurched. "I just came in here for medicine. Headache." He reached for the bottle lying next to the suitcase and shook it at Mr. Allen.

"You could have asked." Frustration bled through Mr. Allen's voice. "Why can't you _ask_?"

"I don't want your help."

Mr. Allen furrowed his brow. "Why _not?_"

Richard pushed himself off the ground. "I have to go, Mr. Allen-"

"You can call me Jack, you _know _that." He held his hands out as if he were taming an animal. "You need to wait for the ambulance."

"I'm not waiting, _Mister_ Allen." Richard, light-headed, tucked the medicine bottle into his pocket and stumbled to the door. "Pray for me. That usually works, doesn't it?"

Mr. Allen followed him into the hall. "Is _that_ what this is about? My prayers?"

Richard stopped at the top of the stairs. "Tell me what happened in the tunnel."

"You read it in the newspaper-"

"I want to hear it from _you_."

Mr. Allen hesitated.

Richard shook his head. "If it weren't for you and your prayers, Blackgaard would be rotting in _prison. _There'd be _justice_ for all the people he's hurt."

"He's receiving _eternal _justice, Richard." Mr. Allen frowned. "I _warned_ him-"

Richard pounded his fist on the railing. "He's _dead!_"

Mr. Allen's gaze went to the floor.

Richard sneered and wobbled his way down the stairs. Bits of the sandwich he'd dropped earlier littered the floor.

Mr. Allen called after him.

He didn't reply. He pulled the front door open and stepped into the rain, then slammed it behind him.


	3. Or Not to Be

**A/N: I'd just like to preface this by saying that this chapter is not the end of the story, thank you :)**

At the edge of McAlister Park, he stumbled bare-footed through the rain, sweatpants and shirt clinging to his skin like spandex. Ragged gasps escaped him as his head pounded in unison to each step.

He crossed the street, eyes fixed on the dark bus stop just in front of the Harlequin Theatre. A pay-phone clung to the side of the metal awning. A single pane of glass on the front kept the rain from blowing in.

Headlights reflected off the glass. He ducked behind the bench, dry pebbles and dirt clinging to his bare foot.

A police car turned the corner, then roared past. An ambulance followed. Neither had lights nor sirens on as they disappeared into the shadows towards Mr. Allen's street.

He stepped back into the buzzing orange light surrounding the bus stop. He frowned as he looked at the pay-phone. A new model with a twenty-cent slot replaced the one he'd expected to phreak.

He yanked the phone off the hook anyway and tested the mouthpiece.

It wasn't removable, and he didn't have spare change lining his sweatpants. He patted his pockets out of habit, fingers brushing the medicine bottle.

He bit his lip.

The darkness seemed to bend over him as he hung up the phone. Blue light filtered under the clouds and over the trees.

The Harlequin's abandoned walls caught the light, illuminating the tendrils of ivy growing up the windows to the second story.

The Harlequin had a phone.

He squelched through the rain to the building.

The wind had knocked over the front trash cans. Remnants of tickets, soggy and unreadable, littered the sidewalk. A month's worth of newspapers the plastic packaging untouched, covered the front step.

The glass on the front door reflected Richard's silhouette as he raised his crutch- then shattered it.

A steady beep-beep emitted from a control panel on the wall.

Glass poked his bare foot as he dragged himself through the opening and onto the casino-style carpet.

An alarm's shrieking pulse cut through the building as all the lights flicked on. The alarm panel on the wall lit red.

He dropped a crutch and held up a hand to shield his eyes from the pendant-style lights.

Velvet rope snaked through the lobby, with the ticket office just beyond. Posters of Shakespeare plays littered the walls.

He pushed through the rope, knocking over a dozen of the cheap posts holding it in place. He stepped over them to the ticket window.

Through the glare of the lights, he could see the phone just inside the ticket office.

The door was on the other side of the wall, accessible from inside the locked theatre.

He didn't have time for this.

He shoved his remaining crutch into the window.

Glass showered in, coating the antique desk and chair inside with a thick, glittering layer.

Leaning against the counter, he stretched to reach the phone inside, slicing his arm. He then yanked it by the cord out of the office.

Heart pounding, he sat down and slumped his back against the office. The ornate trim dug into his sore tailbone.

He dialed Lucy's number and ground the earpiece against his ear.

It rang once before the answering machine picked up. "You've reached the Shultz residence..." The alarm above his head drowned out the recording. "...please leave a message."

The tone beeped. Richard cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. "Lucy? This is Richard."

He paused.

"I don't want to drag you into this, but I'm calling because I hope you'll understand why I did it."

He shifted, blood running down his arm and dripping off his elbow.

"I know you'll blame yourself for not visiting more often, but it had nothing to do with you… my story ended when I fell down that cliff, Lucy. I've been looking for a place to belong ever since."

He paused.

The Merchant of Venice poster on the wall had three coffins on it- gold, silver, and gray. A month ago, the theatre was supposed to debut the play.

The day Blackgaard killed himself, in fact.

"I wanted you to know that I found where I belong. I'll be able to rest. I hope you'll come visit sometime."

He didn't bother to hang up the phone as he left the theatre, red footprints behind him staining the carpet.

The police cars prowled the streets.

At least three passed Richard as he followed the treeline of McAlister Park from the Harlequin, careful to stay out of sight.

Streaky orange light began to filter through the clouds as the rain trickled to a stop. An icy chill began to blow from the Trickle Lake area that sent soggy leaves and debris from the storm rolling across the streets.

Whit's End appeared just beyond the trees, shrouded in yellow caution tape and construction vehicles. They'd had a whole month to patch the building's foundation, but the rain had put a damper on their plans.

Richard jaywalked across the street.

He stepped around soggy concrete bags and metal dumpsters as he headed for the side of the building.

The explosion had blown out the window on the back door. A stapled tarp that snapped in the breeze replaced the glass.

He clawed through it and reached for the lock on the other side. Jagged glass teeth on the sill of the door sliced through his red-stained arm. He grimaced and turned the dead-bolt.

At last.

The door swung open. He crept into the dark kitchen. The headache ground against his skull and into his ears.

The flecks of blood on the tile behind him stood out like a sore thumb. He smiled and touched his dripping arm.

He moved to the kitchen door. He peered through the plastic window into the hub of Whit's End.

The fans on the ceiling stood silent. The tables under them, clean and glimmering in the darkness, sat abandoned.

He pushed the door open, then flinched at the thunderous squeak it made against the deafening silence. He let it fall closed behind him as he limped to the other side of the ice cream counter, crutches squeaking.

The breath left his body as he stared at the counter. Two pristine and full glasses of liquid…

"No…" He backed away.

The bottle of pills in his pocket rattled.

The basement door creaked open.

Richard gripped his crutches as his balance teetered, eyes glued to the yawning blackness that seemed to spill out of the door like water from a dam.

Silence.

Then, a deep chuckle echoed from the opening. "You always come back to me, don't you Maxwell?"

Blackgaard stepped out of the door of the basement, the shadows bending around his ankles like fog. He smirked and adjusted a cuff on his white suit.

Richard tried to even his breathing. "You didn't get the memo? The theme is shadows. Your suit is killing the mood."

Blackgaard rolled his eyes as he stepped closer.

Richard backed away. "Are you supposed to look like a ghost or something?" He pursed his lips at the silence. "No witty comeback?"

"No need. I'm not the joke in the room."

All traces of Blackgaard's illness were gone. He looked younger, like when he'd first made a ceremony of introducing himself in the shadows of that Chicago warehouse.

Another police car roared past the building. This time, its sirens were on.

Blackgaard glanced out the window. "You seem to be running out of time." He brushed some crumbs from a stool at the counter and sat.

Richard fingered the bottle in his pocket.

Ice rattled against Blackgaard's glass as he stared into the lemonade cup. "No 'witty comeback,' Maxwell?"

"Why are you here?"

Blackgaard smiled. "Have I ever served answers? I'm not here to be a soda jerk. You have to earn them."

Richard huffed. "Doing what?"

The smile disappeared. "Accept that I've won, Richard."

"You didn't win."

"I did." He waved his hands at the open basement door. "The way to truly live is to die."

Richard snorted. "Right." He limped to the counter and sat on the second stool.

Blood dripped from his heel.

Blackgaard leaned towards him. "You're not having second thoughts, are you? Your tantrum at Allen's and your cryptic call to the Shultz girl had me under the impression-"

"Just get out of my head!" Richard slid the second glass of lemonade to himself. "Can't you let me rest for just a little while?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the black fog. "Is that your doing?"

"Now, now, Richard, hallucinations are a specialty of yours."

Richard sipped the ice-cold lemonade. "Are you for real?"

Blackgaard stood, lemonade in hand. "I always win in the end. Remember that."

"That doesn't answer my question."

He raised his glass and then pushed it against Richard's with a clink. "To us."

Blackgaard vanished.

Richard ran his hands through his sweaty hair and glanced over his shoulder.

The shadows were gone, the basement door closed.

Nothing had changed.

He shook his head and slipped the ibuprofen bottle from his pocket. He peeled back the instructions.

Do not take more than directed.

Rest.

For good.

Blackgaard wouldn't win. Not this time.

Richard unscrewed the lid, then poured the pills on the counter. Like dozens of red candies, they rolled and bounced across the surface. They landed in his lap, on the floor, and they skittered into the cracks between the boards.

Fingers numb from the frosty glass, he scooped up a handful of them, popped them into his mouth, raised the glass of lemonade to his lips, and swallowed.

He coughed, the sourness of a pill swallowed too late like bile at the back of his throat.

He picked up another handful and swallowed. And again.

And again.

He set down the glass. Tears prickled the corners of his eyes.

If only Whit could see him now.

A burning sensation began to creep into his stomach. Sweat began to ring his collar.

His stomach lurched, the poison shooting back through his throat. He downed more lemonade.

The room began to spin, as if a rug slipped from under him.

He fell out of his chair and on his back, gut twisting like he'd been punched. The breath whooshed from his lungs.

Close to his ear, Blackgaard chuckled. "I always win in the end."

The blood seemed to drain from Richard's body as his blinks became longer and heavier, as if his eyelids were filling with sand.

A few minutes passed. His eyes slid shut for the last time.

He died listening to the crazed laughter ringing off the walls.


End file.
